The Importance of Being Me

I was in line at Coles this afternoon when a lady with a trolley full of kids looked at the glossy front of a magazine and sighed.

“God, I wish I was her,” she said, nodding to indicate whatever glam celeb was frolicking in a bikini on holiday with her hunky man. 

She must have caught my perplexed look.

“What?  You’ve never wished you were someone else?” she asked.

I had to think about that because I genuinely never wish to be anyone other than myself.  But it wasn’t always like that.

When I was five I was engaged in a hero-worship crush arrangement on a little girl a year or two older than me called Trisha White.  Trisha had gorgeous blonde hair that she liked to flick and tuck behind her ear.  She lived in a beautiful house in the posh Greenleigh Estate, had a lovely big room, fabulous clothes and was the much-adored youngest of three and only girl in her family.  She had the best clothes, a casual, carefree attitude and I admired everything about her.

While I wouldn’t use the hot tap at all because I’d been told repeatedly not to, Trisha would rinse her fruit using the hot tap and shrug at my concern.  “It isn’t hot straight away,” she said, “it takes a little while to heat up.”  I admired her bravery and her knowledge but I wasn’t going to do it.  She was braver than I was at most things, more flexible, coordinated and, in general, better and prettier in every way.

She also had a wonderful family.  She had two older brothers who, to her disgust and my goggle-eyed admiration, would cart her around against her will, tickle her, chase her and in general fawn in that clumsy way that older brothers do over their smaller sisters.  One of the older brothers could break dance like nobody’s business.  When he busted out the moves at the local blue light disco everyone cleared a circle to watch the moves we only ever got to see on television. 

Trisha was aloof and unimpressed throughout his performance, especially when one of his moves involved pretending to play with her face and acting like his hand had come away covered in goop.  I would have been thrilled that he’d acknowledged me while he was the centre of everyone’s attention but Trisha was cool.

Her parents were awesome too.  While most adults would skip over my presence, her mum and dad would always acknowledge me, talking to me like I was a grown up and really listening to the answers I gave to their questions.  They were affectionate and close with their kids and both of them were young, vital, funny and involved in all of their children’s activities and interests.  Yep, there didn’t seem to be much reason why you wouldn’t want to be Trisha White.

A few years later people were all talking about Trisha in hushed voices because she’d been hit by a car and was in hospital.  Without going into details, she’d suffered head injuries and the surgeon had shaved all of her beautiful blonde, flicky hair – except for a beaded hair wrap that she’d recently had done.

I remember thinking then that when she woke up she’d be unimpressed about the hair but Trisha, I was sure, would tuck the remaining beady thing behind her ear while the rest of her hair grew back and she would still be infinitely cool and effortlessly pretty.

Except that little Trisha White never did wake up.

I can still remember what I thought and how I felt when I learned that she’d died.  Adults never give kids much credit when it comes to death and grieving but Trisha weighed heavily on my mind for a long time. 

I couldn’t accept that she was gone.  I obsessed over how her family would be without her.  Would they keep the photos of her or take them down, knowing they would never be updated?  Would her parents still be so engaged with younger people?  Would they all still seem so happy and vibrant?  Would her brother still break dance?  In my childish heart, of hearts, I knew things had changed irrevocably for them and that it never would be the same again.  I was crushed on their behalf.

I remember too how it felt to suddenly stop wishing I was Trisha White and start being down-on-my-knees grateful that I was just me instead.  Trisha was loved, admired, missed, wanted and treasured more than ever, I was sure.  But I was also sure that Trisha would have given up just about anything I’d previously admired about her to have what I had instead – a life where she got to grow up and do anything she liked.

I still think about Trisha White from time to time.  Whenever there’s something I’m not good at or can’t do I always think “Trisha could have done it” and then I’m okay with the fact that I can’t.  She is my constant reminder that I’d rather be me than anyone else – even if they are prettier, smarter, faster – whatever.  She taught me that it’s okay to strive to be a better person as long as you accept your limitations and you’re also happy with who you are. 

I have not seen Trisha’s family or heard of them for many, many years and I don’t know how they are or how they remember their little girl.  But I will always remember her as the pretty, bright little girl I so badly wanted to be.  Her life was far shorter than it should have been and she definitely didn’t get a chance to do all of the fantastic things I know she would have done.

But she did manage to teach me an extremely valuable life lesson that has kept her fresh in my mind and heart for all this time and probably for all time yet to come.